


Bite

by Darkwatch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Choking, F/M, Infection, Tags/Relationships Updated When Relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:32:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11410281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkwatch/pseuds/Darkwatch
Summary: Whether you want to or not, you find yourself back with Overwatch after a failed quarantine. The world has gone a bit screwy in your absence, it must be the live synthetic virus that creates a thirst for blood...





	1. Chapter 1

*

 

You woke up thinking you heard shuffling downstairs. Pulling yourself out of bed, leaving the warmth and security of the comforter, you moved down the steps and through the dark until you reached for the familiar switch along the wall to prove to yourself that you were wrong. The sight that greeted you was not _who_ or _what_ you expected; being that lived alone, you were more than entitled to your surprise in finding someone seated at the breakfast bar.

Anyone at all, but him especially.

He occupied one of the tall barstools, a tense tilt between the countertop and his torso, stern face remaining unchanged as your kitchen flushed with detail. His head rested at the junction of his folded hands, gloves since removed and neatly piled on top of the other along the granite before him. Incandescent overhead light filtered through his eyelashes while his gaze flickered over you with a most unholy intensity. Unarmed and unmasked, his blue and white leather jacket was slung over the back of his seat and offered indication that he had been sitting there for some time. Waiting.

Alternatively it confirmed that you were playing into his premeditation of the moment, that he counted on you finding him just as you had.

“Well well, if it isn't _Jack Morrison_..." You grimaced, countering the look he gave you by staring back at him with shrewd interest. It took a struggle to keep emotion from overtaking your voice. “Are you lost?”

He responded first with false laughter, course and low. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“No longer in quarantine then, I see.” You managed after a pause that verified what you felt without having to admit to anything directly. “How’d that work out?”

The highly abbreviated version of events was that there was a modified virus that hit hard and impossibly fast, details involved bioterrorists and a nasty infection that resulted in almost every recalled Overwatch agent getting _sick..._ But even the word itself fell grossly inadequate; _sick_ did not describe the horror of it, the monsters it made out of the people you loved dearly. 

Monsters such as the one that sat in the very same seat you had just ate dinner in.

“Nothing’s changed.” Jack replied with indifference, his chin still cradled by his hands, scanning you from his perch between slow blinks. "Same symptoms, different day..."

You turned away to avoid being dissected by his blue eyes; the more you stared, the more he got under your skin. 

“So, tell me how all that correlates with you sitting in my kitchen. I don’t remember inviting you here.”

But Jack proved to be dedicated to jags of silence and allowed your speculations to loop into their own conclusions, all while managing to look formal and sharp in the steeple of his fingers. Whatever internal dialogue he was having forced a long drawn out exhale before he let his shoulders drop back and spoke, “I'm here because I need your help.”

Even if you had imagined all the necessary sincerity, it was still an outrageous statement. 

“Really? Did you forget hat I was there and willing to do what I could before? I wasn't good enough for you then, Jack, I doubt I'll be good enough now.” You replied stonily without pause for reflection, words rushing off your tongue. "Is that why you came all the way out here?”

No response followed save for the almost inaudible whir of your refrigerator but you were determined to not turn around to face him, unsure of what expression took over your face. The pain of rejection had softened but not yet disappeared and talking about it was all the same prodding a bruise.

"You could have called and saved yourself the time and effort." You said, receiving another non-response.

With your focus bravely wandering while still turned away from him, you took in his appearance through the reflection in the windowpanes, filled with the sobriety of pre-dawn darkness. Clean shaven square jaw, neat grooves of scars, disciplined posture— still physically every bit of the Commander Morrison that you remembered fighting alongside with and for, only...

He wasn't.

“Why, Jack?” 

Your voice cracked just enough to force a reply. 

“I’m still one of the good ones. That's why.”

He assured you; as if there was a distinguishing quality throughout those with the virus— as if they weren't equally _fucked_.

“I don’t know that. Hell, how do  _you_  even know that?”

He studied you as you rounded the kitchen island, methodically pulling a glass out and filling it with tap water. The whole action was a casual evasion, a clear reason to move without getting any closer, to look uninterested or unaffected. You took a sip, pressing the cold glass to your lips, trying almost painfully hard to be natural.

A droplet of water tricked down your chin. His eyes widened as his stare followed, hypnotically sliding to your jugular notch. He spoke again after releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth.

“What’s your instinct telling you?”

“My instinct?” You repeated after swallowing, giving a half-hearted glance over your shoulder towards him and finding it harder than before to look at him. “Right now it says: knee you in the balls. I think that’s reasonable seeing that you broke into my house while I was sleeping. What’s yours saying?”

The virus filled him with a constant feed of selectively primitive demands; he chose not to listen or act on them, most of the time. Jack responded with a nonchalance that chilled you, as if he had been commenting on the drop in weather instead of the bio-curse. “Oh, nothing nice...”

Nothing save for a single moronic imperative screaming in his mind like a child in a tantrum, kicking his seat on a plane. A manic frat boy at a house party, mindlessly: _DRINK. DRINK. DRINK._  And with the new urges came random aggressive sexual impulse, for there was no better friend to violence than sex.

Whatever got the blood flowing— both metaphorically and literally.

Jack cocked his head back slightly as he continued, arching an eyebrow in expressive demand. It was a gesture designed to signal a radical lack of interest in the task of clarification or mild contempt for having his question turned back at him. “Still, you don’t see me acting like a damn lunatic now, do you?”

His words, not yours. Damn lunatic. You were more than aware that he could have leapt out of his seat and have his teeth break your skin before you took another breath. “So, you’ve learned to control yourself for a solid minute and I’m supposed to be impressed? Do you realize how messed up that sounds?”

The mere thought of Commander Jack Morrison turned inside out was a mindfuck. He was a difficult person not to admire, even distantly; always blessed with gunpoint focus, always in control. The virus gripped him in spite of that, forcing him to change and contort. It did what no other living thing could— it made him submit.

Once again, you turned to face him, heart seizing up in quiet fear. In turn, he sat up into your appraisal, calm washed over his features, lips pulled into a fine line.

You shuddered out, leaning over the slab of tempest black granite with an elbow and surveying him over the glass in your other hand. It was a shame you had went for water when the situation begged for something stronger. “When exactly did things get _this_ bad?”

“You know when.” He mumbled. With restrained appreciation he studied you as you moved, the back that rounded softly towards him, the fingers clutching the glass; a silent torture that would go unmentioned as Jack’s internal drive switched gears. He swallowed hard to reclaim his commanding presence. “I won’t sit and watch everything cave in.”

“Jack, the entire world is crashing. The virus is out there, what can anyone do about that?”

“Lucky for you, I know the right people for the job...” You knew he was gearing up to mention the very reason why he had crossed the country and broke into your house. You braced yourself as he spoke next. “... And if you help us, we can fix the state of the world— simple as that.”

“Simple? Overwatch is compromised! All of your surviving agents are infected and you just admitted the quarantine was a failure."  Your voice rose after noticing he had lost precisely none of his expression to your critical threads. "What you’re describing is a failure waiting to happen—”

“Happening.” He corrected, his voice overlapping yours, maintaining an extraordinary calm as dismissal rose up over you. “It’s happening as we speak.”

“I’m not following.”

“What if I told you that I knew there was a cure.”

You blanked and set your glass down, as directed by interest or confusion. The situation had reshaped itself drastically.

“The ones who engineered it have a reversal. If they put it together, they can take it apart. It's the same principal.”

“That’s not evidence, Jack! That’s intuition. That’s wishful _fucking_ thinking but yeah, I’ll admit, you had me going for a moment...”

He was silent, actively refusing to acknowledge his agents were doomed to remain what the had become. The stare he cast in retaliation was a delicate balance of composure and resentment.

With understandable concern, you dared to speak again. “You said it was happening, yeah? You're rounding everyone up for some impossible mission? Who do you have, who have you roped in?”

“Nearly everyone. They’re all willing to do what it takes." After a moment of pure, astonishing silence, he added: "You're the only missing piece.”

A cold void settled in the small space between you, something about the claim made you burn up inside. It was strange to feel needed again by the very man who sent you into exile. The analog numbers on your microwave counted up as you drew your conclusion out.

“If you have everybody, then I don't need be involved!”

“You do—”

“Why, then? What possible reason is there?”

“I need someone on my team without this damned virus that I can trust.” Jack was beginning to stress words as he rasped, at long last showing signs of his desperation. “I trust you.”

The particular phase was a wound to you, unassuming until you felt the whitest heat of a fire in your belly. “And that's supposed to be reason enough? Unfortunately I can remember with perfect _fucking_ clarity the exact reason why you made me leave Overwatch. You said I wasn't safe there anymore, that I was a liability— a fucking burden on everyone, Jack. You said that, not me.” 

“They can handle themselves now, it’s not the same risk anymore.” Then, with a forced, brittle calm: “And it’s not just _me_ who needs you, it’s Amari, McCree, Zeigler, Oxton, Shimada—"

 _Everyone_ , he could have said. _It’s everyone._

“I don’t need the guilt trip, Jack! I can’t help you, I can't help them!.”

He flinched, finally.

“... You told me quarantine failed. You're no closer to a cure than you were before and Overwatch is _practically_ done for because of it but you show up here anyway, uninvited and unwanted, filling my head up with this nonsense-”

But _that wasn’t good_ and he let you know by sitting up, calmly rising to his feet as the chrome of the seat dragged backwards over the floor. You backed up automatically at his gesture. 

His voice had changed. Dry still, but a shade darker. “Nonsense?” The look that melted over him was nothing you wanted to see up close. It was all too apparent from his movements as he closed in on you that rational, reasonable Jack Morrison had disappeared. “This _nonsense_ is the reality your team is up against and they damn sure don’t have the luxury of walking away from it all.” Jack reached out faster than you could evade, clutching an impressively strong hand around your throat and holding firmly in place as if you had been backed up into an imaginary wall. He growled out, fixing you directly in his sights. “Cooperate or make things difficult, I don't care. I'm not leaving here without you.”

“Jack—” You choked out, your eyes wide and terrified. His intention was transparent; there was still enough oxygen to breathe but he could change that easily.

“Don’t be unreasonable,” dazed with a clean rage and ethereal blue eyes impossibly cold, he glowered back.

"Me? Unreasonable?" You spluttered, both hands reaching out towards the wrist of the arm that immobilized you. “Take a good look at yourself... Tell me who crossed a line!”

Even as your vision began blurring with his grip around your throat tightening, you still noticed how a corner of his lips had narrowly turned upwards in your fight to breathe. He carried on as if he had not heard you or bothered to listen in the first place. “You’d abandon your team after everything they’ve done for you? Your _family_?”

There was not enough air left in your lungs to argue as you crashed from detachment to unavoidable obligation. If you wanted to stay conscious, you needed to accept the fact that the decision had been made before you even bothered to switch on the kitchen light.

He leaned in, his broad chest nearly touching your own as his jaw brushed against your ear in speech. His breath was slow and hot, lacing over your skin. “Allow me to reiterate, _agent_... I’m not asking, I’m not suggesting, and I’m _damn well_ not about to beg...”

His grip pulsed, tightening yet. You could feel the fingernails depress the thin skin underneath them and appropriately wondered if you had been bleeding.

“I am your commander and this is an _order_.”

The room froze around you but beyond that night sprawled with fiery foliage of autumnal maples. Wind ran through branches. Stars blinked, vapid and unaware. You became aware that you either had the life squeezed out of you then or you agreed and lived long enough to have the life squeezed out of you later.

Jack took care to remove all the inflection out of his voice as his body moved back into your fixed vision, hand no less secure around your neck. “Understood?”

On the border of unconsciousness, you managed a borderline unintelligible “ _yessir_ ” and immediately felt release, free from a potentially fatal trajectory. Your gasps became obscene as your breathing stabilized.

“Smart girl.” Jack patted your shoulder, watching you struggle with irritating benevolence as if he wasn't the cause of your discomfort. “I knew you’d see it my way. Eventually.”

Unthinking, you spat between painful inhalations: “F-fucking _vampire_.”

But the comment passed through him without purchase and the previous excitement that gripped him faded gradually, pulled back inside. Quick to rise, slow to sink. Returning to the barstool, he collected his jacket and slid it over his tensed frame. 

“We don’t have much time until sunrise. Be ready to leave soon.”

  

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

After changing and gathering your things as the commander paced nosily about the kitchen, you set out into calm weather. Above you, the crimson and gold of October unfurled in the boughs of every tree and under your feet scattered along the ground. A bright hunter’s moon sat in the star-laden, charcoal sky.

The world was still, eerily calm, but no less dangerous.

Jack shadowed your movements and followed behind you as you moved down the cement walkway, stopping short when you found a sleek hovercar parked on your driveway. His. An obnoxiously patriotic red exterior, the entire bodily surface painstakingly waxed and reflective. It was sleek with no rough edges, made to cut down the road with speed and stealth. Knowing Jack, you correctly assumed the car was outfitted with all the standard functional capabilities necessary for his comfort— bolstered with steel plating and ballistic nylons, as indestructible as a tank.

“Wow, Jack. Not exactly a man of subtleties.” You mused out loud with a dry, facetious tone, unable to take your eyes away from the seamless curvature of the vehicle. “I don't think you could have picked a flashier ride even if you tried. This thing just begs for attention.”

You broke the heavy awkwardness of the moment, hearing him shuffle to a halt at your observation.

“Sounds like you're impressed.” A wry smile audibly crossed his face as his gloved hand gripped onto your shoulder once again, reminding you of his proximity. “We have a long drive ahead of us and I figured this would be the most _agreeable_ option. Hope you don't mind.”

“Well, it's not like I have a choice now, do I?”

He laughed, darkly. The sound made every muscle in your body coil.

“Don't be like that.”

"Don't be like what _exactly_ , Jack? Don't be honest or don't be realistic?" You shot back, your voice practically singing with frustration.

His silence was confirmation enough and you had one blissful moment where you considered he was repentant for forcing you to leave your home in the middle of the night. You glanced back over your shoulder and shared a look, finding his face as blank and hard-lined as a catalogue model. He observed the subtle twitch of your lips and the tightening of your eyes. The hand that had gripped your shoulder eased and slipped away, just barely skimming your back as it returned to his side.

"You haven't changed much, have you?" Jack concurred.

"You've changed enough for the both of us."

You reached out for the handle but he grabbed it first and pulled the door open for you. You climbed into the passenger seat, undecided if the gesture was made in politeness or force. He was strangely courteous in the face of all that had happened previously, asking for permission to take your duffle bag from you before securing it in the trunk. You agreed only because it would be childish to decline, there was little else that could be done.

He slipped in the driver's seat and started the car, all accomplished in remarkably precise and elegant motions, even the way he pulled the seat-belt across his body. The dashboard glowed a gentle blue as the vehicle shivered into life, filling his pale face with its cold radiance. You felt the car rise off the pavement, steady and sure of itself. The nearly soundless thrum of the engine like the distant purring of a cat, more vibration than discernible sound.

The two of you sat in silence as he stared straight ahead at the garage door before you. You wondered what he was thinking of in his meditative and tranquil state until his eyes moved to hold you in his peripherals. Unearthly, frozen blue.

Jack's left hand griped the steering wheel while the right clenched gear lever. He growled out as the leather creaked expressively. “Seat-belt.” The reason why he was stalling— you had forgotten.

You crossed yours over your body on cue, securing it with a little jab of embarrassment. His grip relaxed once it clicked in place before he began backing out.

He was the first to talk again only a few short minutes later, wondering if you wanted him to adjust the temperature. You mumbled out that you were a little cold and he responded by setting a dial on the IP. The plush leather seat began incrementally heating up beneath you, giving an obscene concentration of warmth that pooled about your crotch. You felt your face redden by the sensation, wondering to the point of discomposure if it was noticeable, before defensively curling your body away from him.

If he noticed, he allowed you the comfort without any additional commentary.

Headlights of other cars sporadically slipped by, followed by the drone of their passing. Time refused to compress. You managed to fall asleep briefly but woke up some time later just as morning had began breaking over the horizon with little desire to be subtle. Jack squinted, no part of him appearing outwardly appreciative for the detonation of colours that streaked the sky.

“I didn't know vampires could tolerate sunlight..." You murmured, adjusting in your seat.

He shrugged before searching an overhead compartment, producing a pair of classic aviator sunglasses and settling them on his face. “That’s why I have these.”

An uncomfortable still fitted itself between you, somehow deepened by the enclosed space of the car. You realized then he had switched on the radio, tuned into some post-punk revival station. The volume had been reduced to a level no greater than a whisper, whatever song that was playing could be easily tuned out.

“I’m not a vampire.” He was late to clarify but asserted all the same, eyes flicking over to you through the polarized lenses. The gunmetal frame glinted.

“You drink blood."

"And?"

"And what do you want to call it?”

A thoughtful expression crept over his lips. “I'm an opportunist.”

You almost laughed, not that it had been especially funny. “And I’d call that a lawyer’s answer.”

You surveyed his profile for an extra moment or two before your attention was vacuumed back out to the angelic, purifying light breaking over the sky. An especially glorious morning poured over the flatland sprawling ahead of the road. Traffic had increased, marginally.

The snarl in his voice had turned husky and demanding. “No one likes driving with the sun in their eyes.”

But you didn't mind it.

He turned the radio up.

 

*

 

Not necessarily remembering when you had drifted off, you woke back up. Quietly disorientated.

“Are we there?”

“We're closer.”

You realized only then that the car was stopped, opening your eyes and finding you had been parked in a lot that faced the highway.

“We've been on the road for a few hours already." He supplied before you could open your mouth to ask, "I need to stretch my legs."

“That's novel.”

“How so?”

“Really trying to normalize this hostage situation, don't you think?”

He made a face. “How about this: I gotta take a leak. Better?”

“Fine talk for you, Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah… Just behave yourself.”

You tailed after him into the great cement mammoth and corrugated steel roof of the rest stop. It had been early enough in the morning that it was still blessedly near empty, speckled with travelers looking for breakfast and a caffeine fix. A lonely custodian mopped, the building was spacious and clean but reeked of isolation. You found one of the only open stalls and browsed, deciding on a drink and setting it down at the empty counter. As you waited for the attendant to make an appearance at the register, you picked up a magazine from a neat stack and flicked through the pages. It was a new issue, splashed with articles that generously held your attention for seconds at a time.

“Ouch…”

As you had idly scanned the contents, one of the various inserts sliced through the skin of your thumb. You cursed with annoyance for the trouble as your nostrils flared before feeling a presence slip up behind you. Jack loomed over your back. His voice sounded different, each word rigid. “What did you do?”

“It’s stupid, really.”

You began dismissing it before he asked again with greater emphasis, slowing his phrasing down and sounding twice as serious.

"Alright, alright... I gave myself a paper-cut.”

He pulled you out of the rest stop then, forcing you to abandon the purchase you were trying to make by insistently leading you back to the car. There was moment of nauseating silence after you both returned to your seats, installing it's own strange intensity in the moment before either of you breathed a word.

His voice was low and almost angry. “Let me see.”

You fully resented the idea but slowly let your hand out, considering how you were only separated by a console and how if he were motivated enough that he could make it happen without your compliance. There was a perfect bead of crimson on your thumb, dark and glistening. And unfortunately for you, it was also disturbingly, destabilizing enticing. You watched, helplessly, as his mental discipline came apart.

His face warped with an untraceable emotion as his chest began visibly rising and falling from beneath the leather jacket. Both of his hands latched to your wrist and forearm, locking your hand in place.

You mumbled weakly, giving one fruitless attempt at freeing your limb, “It's nothing, really…”

“It's just blood to you, sure,” he stated with clinical perversity. "But to me, it's more than that."

You felt his tongue press over your thumb before surrounding the finger with his mouth.

“Jack! What the _fuck_ are you doing!?”

He gently began sucking, gingerly running his tongue over the cut as little jots of pain moved up your limb, registering the stinging along with danger. The privacy of the car only intensified the bizarre intimacy of the moment; you felt a dull throbbing between your legs that you were humiliated to pinpoint— like that of the heated seat.

Even so, primarily, you were scared to move. The sheer idea of being bit was paralyzing.

He made the sound of a sneer before inhaling deeply and forcefully. There was obscene need underpinning the action, as if it had been the necessary solution— much like a band-aid or peroxide.

“Jack!” You repeated, fear rising in your voice.

He laughed, finally releasing your thumb with a soft pop. The cut exposed to the air felt strange and fresh.

“That’s disgusting.”

He ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, lost in his own little world before responding.

“Is it?”

“You can't seriously be asking me that.” You examined your thumb, the irritated faint red slit along the thin skin. “I shouldn't have to dignify that with a response.”

“Everyone bleeds.” He concluded meaninglessly with an empty shell of a smile, naturally condescending. “Look, a little blood is nothing to a soldier. Watching people die becomes normal, easy. I've gotten pretty damn good at it, wouldn't you say?”

“Numb to it, rather.”

“It's the same thing.” He made a vague, dismissive gesture. "You'll learn that."

You bravely looked towards him, mute horror about the sentiment. His previous tension had collapsed, temporarily relieved by the taste of your paper-cut like an opiate depressing his system, but no part of him appeared friendly. Not his skin, pale as milk, or the silvery white close-cropped hair.

“That virus is rotting your common sense.” You said without regard for his reaction. “What if I'm infected now? What about that? Is that what you want?”

“It takes a hell of a lot more than that.” He muttered, clicking the seat-belt back over his body.

You knew you should have just stayed quiet but the pulse in your hand was hard and distracting. You scowled, shaking your head. “You told me you could control yourself. You're not exactly living up to your word.”

“I don't want to have to repeat myself so you'll need to listen carefully..." He was brazenly relaxed as he spoke. You nodded in agreement but felt the leather of his gloves capture your chin, pulling you to face him and using your focus as leverage.

“You're a smart girl. You know I _could_ change you, don't you?"

"Jack..." You mumbled, face contorting.

He made a slight movement with his head. "I said: don't you?"

"Yes..."

"I remember the initial phase of the infection, my first exposure to _this_. I remember the torture breathing became, every inhale like broken glass in my lungs. It would be excruciating for you, but for me? Painless, maybe even enjoyable." He stifled down the urge to say more.

You felt the cold sweat of fear at the back of your neck, the sudden over-saturation of awareness thinning your pupils. You continued to stare into his face only because he had not allowed you to turn away.

"I have no doubt that however strong and wrongfully stubborn you are, you would beg me to kill you. No amount of military experience can prepare you for the transformation. And me, being— what exactly did you call it? _Numb to death_ , yeah? I think I’d have to oblige you. Out of mercy.” Each sentence flowed effortlessly into the next, his voice holding onto the same low and course tone you would forever associate him with. He took a small pause, fitting a tight sigh into the gap before continuing. “But, I don’t want that. I want you _unaffected_. As unfairly sweet as you taste, I’m not about to compromise that and I don’t plan on hurting you."

His hand slipped from your chin to your throat, his icy blue stare dipping and following the movement, almost as if he was considering it anyway. His grip was loose but wide, feeling and gauging the insistence of your pulse.

"Don't go worrying that _pretty little head_ _of yours_ over what I could do to you." He laughed with arrogance, allowing his lips to lift into a smirk, thinking it appropriate to do so. “I promise that I’ll keep you safe. Okay?”

He pulled his hand away. You defiantly looked out over the dashboard, eyes fixated on the distance and unable to face him. Your breathing had become shallow and you only noticed then as you let acceptance rush cold over your body.

You sincerely wondered if he had meant to scare you silent.

It worked, in any case.

"... And now that we’ve come to an understanding, would you mind fastening that damn seat-belt already? HQ is still a few hours away and I’m anxious to get moving.”

 

*


End file.
